Nicholas said, “We’re going over there at nine.” Mike hung up, and Nicholas said, “All right. Let me make one more call.”
He dialed Miles Herrington’s number but got no answer. No help for it. He called his boss, Hamish Penderley, at home, braced for the deluge. After two days of ignoring the man’s emails and calls, he had a bit of explaining to do.
Penderley surprised him, though. He answered the phone with a gruff “About time you surfaced.” But the berating he expected didn’t come.
“Sorry, sir. I’ve been rather busy.”
“Yes, I suppose you have. We heard about the explosion in Geneva. Cut it a bit fine there, didn’t you?”
Nicholas was relieved; apparently, word of the other two attempts on their lives hadn’t gotten back to him. He said, “Yes, sir. Even have a few stitches in my back as a result. Have you heard anything from Miles? He was supposed to be following the leak from the palace on the plans for the Koh-i-Noor exhibit.”
“My son doesn’t check in as regularly as he should.”
“Ah, well, then. If you should speak to him, tell him I’m waiting.”
“Is this what you called me about, Drummond? First you defy my orders and run off to America, now you want me to be the messenger boy from my son to you? You have some gall.”
“No gall, sir. I’m working closely with the FBI; they’ve been most cooperative. We’ve identified Elaine’s killer, an assassin named Mulvaney, also known as the Ghost, and we believe we understand his motive for killing her. She was innocent in all this; it was a terrible mistake.”
Penderley said, “I knew Elaine couldn’t be involved. The Ghost, you say? I’ve heard of him. He’s a legend. He was just a kid we were told. It was rumored he was behind a series of bombings in Northern Ireland while I was in the academy. We had to work the scenes; they pulled the trainees onto the ground to support the regular coppers. I’ll never forget it. From what I know, he disappeared from the stage several years ago. It was widely assumed he was dead.”
“Apparently, he’s not dead. What else can you tell me about him?”
“There’s a dossier of information in our database, but it’s sketchy at best. He’s a dangerous man, Drummond, maybe more dangerous than you. Keep me informed. And Drummond, watch your back.”
“Will do, sir.”
He hung up. It looked like he’d have a job to return to when all was said and done, though Penderley would find a way to punish him—probably with training exercises at Hendon for six weeks—but he wouldn’t be cast out.
Mike was watching him. He gave her a mad grin.
“It’s nearly nine p.m. Let’s go see what Lanighan is up to.”
90
Paris
Avenue Foch, Saleem Lanighan’s home
Saturday night
At five minutes after nine, they heard a car start up and drive around from the garage. The door to the building opened and Lanighan came out. He looked angry. They watched him get into the waiting car and slam the door. The wheels on the Mercedes squealed as the car whipped away from the curve. What had him so pissed off?
Nicholas gave them a moment to put some distance between them, then pulled out after him.
“Keep an eye on them, Mike, they’re going fast.”
They were circling around the Arc de Triomphe now.
She said, “There they are, turning to the right. Let me count, fifth turn off the roundabout, onto the Champs-Élysées.”
Nicholas downshifted instead of braking as the car flew out onto the street behind the Mercedes. He could see it up ahead, nearly a quarter of a mile down the street. He floored the gas pedal, and the Peugeot leapt forward.
Mike said, “He’s headed east. Gagny is his biggest holding, and the only one east of the city. That must be where he’s going.”
“I’ll lay back a bit. Is he using his mobile?”
She checked the computer in her lap. “I’ve tapped into the wire Savich has on his phone. No outgoing calls.”